


start where you are and change the ending

by beingothrwrldly



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soft Hockey Boys, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:08:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22984510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingothrwrldly/pseuds/beingothrwrldly
Summary: Dylan has a text waiting from Mitch when he finally gets back to his car, bone tired and aching over every inch of his body.hey just wanted to say hi,it says.hope ur doing well. miss uDylan doesn’t reply to it right away, just reads it over and over. They haven’t spoken since September. Dylan had been in Tucson every time they’d played each other this season; he figures he got lucky.
Relationships: Mitch Marner/Dylan Strome
Comments: 7
Kudos: 83
Collections: The Dylan Strome Celebration 2020





	start where you are and change the ending

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dharma_club](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dharma_club/gifts).

> Thank you so much for your prompts!! I’m so sorry this isn’t the bodyswap you asked for - it started that way and ended up turning into a kind of angsty character study of Dylan Strome instead. I really hope you like it!!
> 
> Huge thanks to E for looking this over for me and fixing all of my tense problems!! Any remaining mistakes are mine. This is a COMPLETE work of fiction, and if you somehow found this by googling yourself or your friends/family, PLEASE just go away. You do not have permission to read any part of this fic on a public podcast.
> 
> The title is from a quote that’s possibly miscredited to C.S. Lewis - “You can't go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”

Dylan gets called up to Phoenix at the end of the season, and he stays up for three full weeks but he lives out of his suitcase in the guest room at Max’s house the whole time. He wishes they had more away games so he’d have a good excuse, but nobody asks about it. He gets the call that they’re sending him back to Tucson for playoffs just before the last game of the season. 

At least he doesn’t have to go home and pack.

The good thing about going back and forth from Tucson to Phoenix and back to Tucson is that he’s too busy traveling to keep too close an eye on the rest of the guys from his draft year. Dylan hasn’t played near enough games to rack up the kind of points Connor gets, or Jack—or even Mitch—but Dylan can’t help but keep tabs on them, busy or not. He thinks a lot about the months leading up to the draft, about what he’d thought it would be like and how it actually turned out. If anybody had asked him, in 2015, if he thought this was how his NHL career would get started...Dylan has no idea if he’d have expected this type of trajectory. He feels so far out of his element that he’s not even sure what his element is anymore.

He’s due in Tucson for practice at 9:30, and he gets up early to make breakfast before he leaves. He thumbs through his notifications while he's making eggs and keeps getting tagged in tweets about being sent back to Tucson, and he feels like a failure. 

He doesn’t read any of the articles. 

When he gets to the rink he's the first person in the locker room. He skates too hard and then he stays at the gym until after lunch. His calves are burning but he runs on the treadmill until his throat feels dry, and then he lifts weights that are too heavy until the muscles under his shoulder blades ache. 

He has a text waiting from Mitch when he finally gets back to his car, bone tired and aching over every inch of his body. _hey just wanted to say hi,_ it says. _hope ur doing well. miss u_

Dylan doesn’t reply to it right away, just reads it over and over. They haven’t spoken since September. Dylan had been in Tucson every time they’d played each other this season; he figures he got lucky. 

Mitch had replied to Dylan’s last message with _lol_ and Dylan had thrown his phone across the room. He’d meant to reply, eventually, once he’d cooled off a little. But then September turned to October, and there were holidays and birthdays and long stretches of road trips, and now it’s April and they haven’t spoken at all in seven months.

(Dylan wants to say that he doesn’t even care enough about it anymore to remember what they were arguing about, exactly, but that’s a lie.

He and Mitch had hooked up one night at the end of the summer, right before training camp. They’d hooked up a lot over the summer—not every single night but a _lot_—but Dylan hadn’t really realized how fucked up it was until that last night. 

He’d gone to Mitch’s condo and they’d actually had dinner first; Mitch didn’t say it was a date, but looking back, it kinda felt like a date. Dylan had left after they finished, like always, and Mitch had said it was fine, like always, but then Dylan woke up the next morning to a text message from Mitch that just said, _u know what we’re doing is kinda shitty, right?_

Dylan had squinted at his phone until he’d finally written back, _uh no? what exactly r we doing ?? _

Mitch had taken a minute to reply but when he did, it said, _i mean not to get all psychological abt it but i think u think im too good for you so ur settling for like fucking around w/ me over the summer and nothing more._

Dylan _hates_ to be so blatantly called out like that, especially when it's by Mitch Marner. And it had stung, when Mitch said it outright like that, and Dylan wasn’t sure if it had hurt so much because it had come from Mitch or because it was one hundred percent true. _i dont think thats what im doing,_ he had written back. 

He’d known it was a little bit of a lie while he typed it but he’d sent it anyway, because it wasn’t like it was his fault that his heart was a little misguided; the thing about crushes is that sometimes they make you do irrational, stupid things that aren't always irrational, stupid, _good_ things.

Mitch hadn't replied right away so then Dylan had sent, _do u WANT more than that??_

_don't u ever get sick of just like hooking up_, Mitch had written back. He hadn't really answered the question.

Later, he thinks, what he should have said was, _yes, I'm sick of just hooking up, let's start taking this seriously_. What he should've said was, _yes, you're right, I've had a crush on you forever and I'm sick of pretending I don't._

_idk_, was what he’d said instead. 

What he should've said were a thousand different things that he didn't say, but as the saying goes, hindsight is twenty-twenty.

And that’s when Mitch replied _lol_, and that's when Dylan had thrown his phone at the wall.)

The stubborn part of him, the part that normally wins out, wants to just leave the text unanswered and see if they can go another seven months without speaking. But the nostalgic part of him wins this one, and against his better judgment, he taps out a reply. _hey_, he sends back. _miss u too. talk soon?_

Dylan taps over to his text window with Connor and he sends a message there, too - _marner just texted me to say hi wtf._ Connor doesn’t reply right away, but Connor hardly ever replies right away. 

By the time he does reply, Dylan’s turned his phone on and off so many times that he swears it drains his battery faster than it normally does. _Honestly shocked that either of you broke first tbqh_, Connor says. 

_lol_, Dylan writes back. _should I be offended by that?_

Connor doesn’t reply, but he likes Dylan’s message. 

_yeah_, pops up at the top of the screen from Mitch. When Dylan opens the notification, Mitch is still typing. _just so we’re clear I don’t mean like a booty call thing._

Dylan rolls his eyes. _yeah no shit, didn’t think u did._

Mitch sends back a sparkly heart and then, out of nowhere, _good luck @playoffs, love u_

Dylan reads it over and over, and he actually feels hopeful for the first time in a long time. He’s not sure if it's because of Connor or because of Mitch, but it’s kind of nice either way.

...

Dylan doesn’t hear from Mitch again until after the last game against San Jose in the first round. _hey good game tonight_, is the message Dylan finds on his phone after he gets home.

Dylan wants to send a joke back, something about how offended he is that Mitch doesn’t watch all his games, but he still feels a little uneasy about this whole thing, so he doesn’t. 

In the next round, Dylan keeps putting everything he has into the games, and they win game one but then they lose the next three. Dylan thinks maybe game five will go in their favor until Texas scores the game-winner in overtime, and just like that, the season is over.

They fly back to Tucson late that night and Dylan hangs out in the parking lot saying goodbye until there's nobody left to say goodbye to. He gets in his car and debates staying here for the night, but Lawson has already headed home to Ontario and Dylan hates staying at the apartment when nobody else is there, so he finds a cheap hotel room near the airport and gets on the highway to Phoenix before he can convince himself not to.

He stops off at a rest stop halfway through his drive to buy a Red Bull, and when he gets back to his car he opens the can and realizes way too late that the smell of it reminds him entirely of Mitch. 

Scent memory is a hell of a drug. 

He puts the can in the cupholder and starts the car, but he can’t work up the energy to get back on the road. 

It's almost three in the morning, but he feels lonely and a little vulnerable so he calls Mitch even though it’s kind of a dick move. Dylan knows Mitch turns his phone off at night but that might be why he calls, even though it’s already morning in Toronto. He closes his eyes while the voicemail recording reads back Mitch’s number, and he sighs just before the beep. 

"Hey, sorry," he says to Mitch’s voicemail. His voice is hoarse and his throat’s a little sore; he pulls the phone away and clears his throat. "I thought maybe you’d be up already, but...yeah. I don’t know.” He closes his eyes. “This probably sounds crazy, but I was just driving back from Tucson and I was thinking about you, and I just miss you so fucking much I can't breathe.” he says, soft, and he sighs. "Sorry. That's probably weird, right? I guess I’m just feeling...” Dylan opens his eyes and frowns out the window, and he can’t see anything but stars. “I dunno. You don’t have to call me when you get this, you can just ignore it." He pauses, thinks about hanging up, and then he adds, “And like, I’m sorry, about...last summer. I was kind of an asshole, and you didn’t really deserve that.” He scrunches up his nose. “Okay, I’m hanging up. Okay. Bye.”

He hangs up.

Mitch doesn’t call back, but he doesn’t ignore it, either.

_it's not that weird_, Mitch texts him later. It’s a rare moment of sincerity. Dylan’s a little embarrassed to admit how much he cherishes these little moments. _i miss u that much too sometimes._

It's almost six in the morning. Dylan is finally in his hotel room, but he’s too tired to sleep. 

_yeah sometimes maybe_, he taps out. _not like all the time though._

_u don't feel like that ALL the time_, Mitch replies.

_i feel like that literally all the time_, Dylan types out, but then he deletes it because it’s not _literally_ all the time. It’s a lot, though. He thinks about Mitch a lot. _idk maybe i’m too in my head or something_, he writes, and sends that instead. 

_its ok_, Mitch replies. A few minutes go by before he sends anything else, and then he says, _thanks for apologizing btw. u didnt have to do that, i think we were both kinda assholes._ There’s another long pause before he adds, _that’s prob not the same as “im sorry too”, eh? _

It makes Dylan smile, even though he’s not sure it’s all that funny yet. _i meannn no_, he writes back.

Mitch’s reply comes almost immediately. _well im sorry too_, he says. _not sure if that sounds sincere but it is. _

Dylan waits for him to say something else, but he doesn't. 

The sun is coming up outside his window. Dylan kind of wishes Mitch would call him back, but then he finally drifts off to sleep before he can think too much about it.

...

When Dylan gets home to Mississauga, he finds out that Matthew is spending the summer in Pittsburgh and Ryan is staying in Edmonton. The house is a different kind of empty with just his parents around; when they’re at work it feels a little lonely, but Dylan keeps himself busy and tries to keep his focus on training and working out, and then every night the house is full again.

He talks to Connor every couple days, a few texts back and forth, but it never really turns into much more than that. Dylan wonders if they’ll see each other this summer, if Connor will make the drive or if Dylan should offer to come visit, but he stops thinking about it so much when Mitch shows up at his gym one morning at the beginning of June. 

Dylan is sitting on the bench putting his sneakers on when Mitch walks into the locker room. “Dylan _Strome_,” Mitch says as he opens a locker across the room and tosses his bag inside. He sounds the same as always, a little too much bravado that has Dylan convinced he’s just as insecure as everybody else but way better at hiding it. “What's up, bud?”

“Hey, Marns.” Dylan sits up and watches him for a second. He thinks about hassling him but decides against it; there’s a little bit of sadness behind Mitch’s eyes that Dylan feels kinda weird about. “Thought I’d be safe here this summer.”

“Yeah, you thought,” Mitch says. He looks into his locker for a minute, and Dylan watches the backs of Mitch’s shoulders. 

Dylan stands up, and he chews at his bottom lip for a second before he works up the courage to say anything. “We’re cool, right?” he asks quickly. It’s a gamble, saying anything about it, but Dylan figures it’s safer to get it over with now than to drag it out for hours, days, weeks. 

“Yeah, I think so,” Mitch says into his locker, and then he looks up at Dylan. “Right?”

“I mean.” Dylan shrugs. “You can't really hate me _forever_.”

“I _could_,” Mitch says, but when he smiles, it's a little softer than normal. “But I don't.”

Dylan smiles back. “I’m pretty lovable.”

“Yeah, something like that.” Mitch closes his locker. “Your head is getting _way_ too fucking big, might wanna do something about that.”

Later, before lunch, Mitch is dragging as he follows Dylan back into the locker room. The sadness is gone from his eyes now and he just looks exhausted. “How much do I have to pay you to blow off your afternoon skate?”

Dylan is tempted but he shakes his head. “I would, but I'm not letting myself skip anything this summer.”

“You work way too fucking hard,” Mitch says. He drops heavily onto the bench. “What would it cost me to change your mind, ten thousand bucks? Fifty thousand. I’ll give you two hundred million dollars.”

Dylan squints at him. “I would’ve considered it for ten thousand.”

Mitch scowls back. “Fuck you.”

“I’m just saying,” Dylan says, shrugging. “You just totally fucked yourself.”

“Yeah, story of my life,” Mitch mutters. “You know, you used to be fun. I miss _that_ Dylan.”

“This is my idea of fun now,” Dylan says, though he's not really sure this is _fun_. 

Mitch leans back on his hands and lets his head fall back, and he sighs loudly. “I hate you,” he says to the ceiling.

“You wanna come skate with me?” Dylan closes his locker and pulls his bag onto his shoulder. “You'd probably skate circles around me anyway, make me look like a fucking amateur.”

Mitch purses his lips at the ceiling. “Not like that takes much effort,” he says, thoughtful. He tilts his chin back down and looks at Dylan.

“You’re an asshole,” Dylan says. “C’mon, Mitchy.” He sticks out his lower lip and presses his palms together like he's praying, and it makes Mitch laugh so Dylan figures he's doing something right. 

“Maybe I'll let you win,” Mitch says as he stands up. 

“There’s no _winning_,” Dylan says. “It’s not a competition.”

Mitch laughs loud at that. “Stromer, _everything_ with me is a competition, you should fucking know that by now.”

Mitch does turn it into a competition, which is exactly something Dylan had expected him to do. And Mitch does skate circles around Dylan, sometimes literally, which is also exactly something Dylan had expected him to do.

And then when they go back to the locker room late in the afternoon, sweaty and breathless, Mitch follows him into the shower, and he drops to his knees and sucks Dylan off while the water pounds on Dylan's back. 

This is definitely _not_ something Dylan had expected him to do, but he hasn’t hooked up with anybody in months, so he’s not gonna complain about it. Nobody since Mitch, last summer, and he tries not to think about what _that_ means. 

Dylan comes way, way too quickly, and he grabs Mitch under the armpit and hauls him up to his feet. “See, I knew you could be fast at something,” Mitch says, smirking like an asshole. 

Dylan shoves him back against the wall. “Would you shut the fuck up for one second?” he mutters, and he kisses Mitch with his thumbs pressed into the muscles at Mitch’s hips. 

“Please,” Mitch hisses into Dylan’s mouth. The water has gone lukewarm against Dylan’s back, which he fucking hates, but he licks into Mitch’s mouth and Mitch whimpers and goes squirmy and pliant under Dylan’s hands. 

He figures he can deal with lukewarm water for a couple more minutes.

...

Mitch comes by the house the next day while Dylan’s parents are both at work. They spend the afternoon splashing around in the pool, and Dylan only pushes Mitch in the deep end once.

After a couple hours, Dylan’s fingers are all wrinkled and he's starting to get chills, so he sits on the bottom step of the shallow end for a while with his back against the wall. Mitch swims over, and Dylan thinks he looks like he has mischief in his eyes. Mitch braces himself on the edge of the pool with one hand on each side of Dylan’s shoulders, kneeling on the step between Dylan's thighs. Dylan bites his lip and watches him and Mitch gets right up in Dylan’s space like it's where he's always belonged. “Nobody's home, right?” Mitch says softly, nosing at Dylan's jaw. 

Dylan puts his hands on Mitch’s waist and shakes his head. He feels a little self-conscious all of a sudden, because Mitch has his own place in Toronto and Dylan’s still sleeping in the same bedroom he slept in when he was twelve. “Nobody's home,” he says. 

“Okay, cool,” Mitch says, and he swipes the tip of his tongue across Dylan's bottom lip before he kisses him, hard and fast in a way that makes Dylan feel weightless. 

They stay like that for a while, making out on the stairs in the shallow end of the pool, Dylan holding onto Mitch’s waist like handlebars on a motorcycle that’s going way too fucking fast. Mitch kisses with a lot of tongue and he tastes like chlorine and Dylan feels like he's not fast enough to keep up. He bites Mitch’s bottom lip a little too hard and Mitch makes this little moaning sound in the back of his throat and pushes his hands into Dylan’s hair and tugs a little. “_Fuck_,” he whispers against Dylan’s mouth, and then Dylan reaches up and pinches one of Mitch’s nipples. 

Mitch pulls back with a gasp and Dylan’s eyes go wide. “Sorry,” he says quickly. 

At the same time, Mitch says, breathless, “Can we move this out of the pool or something?”

Dylan drags Mitch into the pool house because it's closer than dragging him into the actual house, and Mitch trips over his feet and grabs at Dylan’s arm. “I _need_ you on my dick, like, I don't even care _how_,” he hisses, fingers scrabbling at the waistband of Dylan's swim trunks. “But with, with that nipple thing, do that nipple thing again.”

Dylan grins and pushes Mitch up against the wall. They left the door wide open, but nobody's home and nobody’ll be home for hours so he figures it's safe. “You're so fucking bossy,” Dylan says, and he shoves Mitch’s swim trunks down and kisses his neck. Mitch lets his head fall back and whimpers, his eyes closed and sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. 

Dylan sucks at the soft skin of Mitch’s neck until he's left a bruise, and then he scrapes his teeth over the curve of Mitch’s collarbone. He slides a hand up Mitch’s ribs and flicks his thumb across Mitch’s nipple, and Mitch sucks in a breath. “Oh my god,” he whispers, and he thumps his head against the wall. 

“You alright?” Dylan asks quietly, and he flicks his thumb again. 

“I fuuucking hate you!” Mitch says, gleeful. 

Dylan grins against Mitch’s neck and twists Mitch’s nipple with one hand, and moves down to the other with his mouth. Mitch arches his back and squirms around and drags his fingernails down the back of Dylan's shoulder in a way Dylan's sure will leave a mark. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Mitch gasps, and Dylan laughs. 

They end up jerking each other off at the same time, all fumbling hands and breathless laughter, and Mitch grabs Dylan by the back of the neck with his free hand and pulls him down for a kiss. “I'm gonna,” he whispers into Dylan's mouth.

Dylan just says, “Mmhmm, okay, okay.” Mitch comes first and Dylan not long after, and Dylan thinks about making a comment about lasting longer than Mitch this time but he decides to keep his mouth shut instead. 

Later, the sun is low and orange and hot in the sky when Mitch brings up Connor. 

They're sprawled across beach chairs next to the pool. Mitch is laying on his back and Dylan is on his stomach with his eyes closed. His skin feels tight and dry with chlorine from the pool, and he keeps pressing his finger to the bridge of his nose to feel the way it stings with the start of a sunburn. “You talk to Davo much anymore?” Mitch asks. 

Dylan opens one eye and looks at him. Mitch is wearing dark sunglasses and Dylan isn't sure if his eyes are open or closed.

“Not really,” he says. It’s not exactly a lie but it feels like one all the same. Hardly ever, he wants to say, but he doesn't. “I dunno. He's busy, you know?” 

“Huh,” Mitch says, thoughtful. 

“Huh what?” Dylan asks. 

Mitch doesn't answer right away, just shrugs. “Thought you would, that's all.”

“Why?” 

“Literally no reason,” Mitch says. It sounds clipped, closed off, and Dylan frowns up at the sky. “Just thought you would.”

“Do you think I'm hung up on him?” Dylan says, feeling suddenly brazen.

“On who, on McDavid?” Mitch sounds a little surprised by the question.

“Yeah,” Dylan says. He feels kinda stupid for even asking.

“I mean, no,” Mitch says, but it sounds even more clipped and closed off, and Dylan doesn't believe him.

“Because I’m not,” Dylan says, a little quieter. He means it, but he’s not sure how to prove it. “He’s just a friend.”

Mitch sits up and turns so he’s facing Dylan. He pushes his sunglasses up on his head and his eyes look hurt, now that Dylan can see them. “Just because you’re not hung up on him doesn’t mean…” He shakes his head “You're just not thinking about what that does to other people.” His face is carefully neutral and he doesn’t sound mad, exactly, but Dylan can’t be sure that he’s _not_. 

“What does that mean?” Dylan tries to be careful, too, tries to keep his own voice neutral. He’s not sure if it works. 

Mitch just looks at him for a second and then presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, lets out a long breath. “I don’t know,” he says after a minute. Dylan still doesn't believe him but he's too afraid of the outcome to push it any further. “Nothing. I don’t know.”

_do we talk enough?_ Dylan texts Connor later, after Mitch is gone. He clenches the muscles in his shoulders while he waits for Connor to reply.

_dunno_, Connor writes back. _how do u define enough?_

_so me and marner started doing that thing again but i think this time there might be real feelings involved,_ Dylan wants to send back, just to see how Connor would react, but instead he just frowns at his phone. The cursor blinks at him, counting all the seconds he’s wasting, but he sighs at it and sets it face down on his bedside table, rolls over and falls asleep.

...

On Canada Day, Dylan’s parents plan a giant barbecue. They invite everybody Dylan’s ever met in his life and Matt comes home from Pittsburgh, and even Ryan shows up a couple days early. Dylan goes back and forth forever but finally decides to invite Mitch, too. _it’s not a big deal if ur busy_, he sends, because he's really not sure where they stand after the other day.

Mitch writes back immediately. _sure yeah_, he says. _sounds like fun_

“I invited Davo to this thing tomorrow,” Ryan says when they're unloading groceries from the back of their dad’s car the night before the party. “I hope that’s cool.”

“What, to the barbecue?” 

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “He said he wasn't sure he'd be able to make it, but.”

“I mean, he's busy,” Dylan shrugs, like he's not going to be disappointed at all if Connor doesn't show. 

“I know, but we all are.” Ryan takes Dylan's bag from him. “I just told him he should try and drop by.”

Dylan sends Mitch another text that night. _my brother invited davo to the thing tmrw_, he says. It feels weird to warn Mitch about that. 

_Ok cool_, Mitch sends back. 

Dylan squints at his phone and finally writes back, _felt like maybe i should let u know_.

_ok_, Mitch says. _good to know_.

On Sunday, when Dylan opens the door, Mitch greets him with a wolf-whistle and says, “Look at _you_!” 

Dylan scrunches up his nose and scowls. “What the fuck is wrong with you,” he says. His cheeks feel hot but he steps aside anyway so Mitch can come inside.

“It's a compliment, dipshit.” Mitch squeezes Dylan’s bicep, and when he grins at Dylan, Dylan feels like he's the only person on earth. 

Dylan’s just about to pick Mitch as captain of the little kids for a game of ball hockey when there's a tap on his shoulder, and when he turns around, it's Connor. “Look who it is!” Mitch says pointedly, and when Dylan shoots him a look, he raises his eyebrows and gives Dylan this _look_ right back, like he thinks he knows a secret that Dylan doesn't have. 

Connor smiles a little self-consciously and Dylan’s stomach does cartwheels. He's wearing a dark gray t-shirt with shorts and a backwards Otters hat that’s faded and worn out. He looks older, like noticeably older, and it hits Dylan then, just how much time’s gone by while he wasn't even paying attention. 

Dylan tightens his grip on the stick he's holding and smiles back, says, “Hey, hi. You made it, Ryan said you weren't sure.”

“I know,” Connor says, and before Dylan realizes what's happening, Connor’s pulling him into a one armed hug while Mitch makes gagging noises from the sidewalk. “But I couldn't pass up a Strome family barbecue, it's my favorite summer tradition.”

Dylan hugs back awkwardly, his stick still in one hand, and Connor’s skin feels hot under the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Dylan nods and says, “Yeah, right, of course it is.” 

Connor takes a step back. “You got room for one more?” 

“Sure, yeah,” Dylan says. “Of course.”

“You can be goalie!” Mitch yells, because nobody ever wants to be goalie. 

Dylan makes a face and shakes his head and says, “You don’t have to be goalie, ignore him.”

“_Don’t_ ignore me.” Mitch walks over and hits Dylan in the shins with the blade of his stick. “You’re an asshole,” he says as he pulls Connor into a hug. “I can’t believe you didn’t hug me first.”

Connor rolls his eyes at Dylan as he hugs Mitch back. “_Egregious_ error on my part,” he says, and Mitch laughs. 

Dylan doesn’t expect his feelings about Mitch to come crashing over him like a tidal wave, but when Mitch turns back to him, that’s exactly what happens. The sun catches his face just right and he smiles at Dylan, a real smile that's bright and optimistic and so distinctly _Mitch_ that Dylan's breath catches in his throat. 

He’s not sure what to do with that information, so instead he just blinks quickly, tries to clear his head, and says, “Let’s play some hockey, eh?”

Dylan mixes up the teams pretty well but he makes sure Mitch gets all the five and six year olds, mostly because Mitch is the best with the little kids but also because Mitch deserves it. Mitch is too careful to be outwardly mean but when he catches Dylan’s eye, Mitch mouths _fuck you_ as slowly as he can and jabs his stick in Dylan's direction from the other side of the street. Dylan takes Connor for his team, which is a gamble because Connor might let the kids win, but Dylan decides it's a risk worth taking.

Dylan’s team is up by five when one of the smallest of Mitch’s kids shoots and misses a goal by about a mile, and Mitch drops to his knees and screams at the sky. Dylan has to call a time out so he can catch his breath from laughing, and Connor bangs his stick on the street and says, “Let's _go_, come on!” but he's laughing, too.

Later, after most everyone’s gone home, Dylan and Connor sit together on the swing in the backyard and Mitch lays on his back in the grass by their feet with one arm folded under his head. “That was so fucking fun today,” Mitch says. 

“It _was_ fucking fun,” Connor says softly. “Felt like we were kids again.”

“Jesus Christ, you should've been playing for my team, then, you could've actually been a fucking kid,” Mitch says, and Dylan starts laughing. “That was a fucking sham, Strome.”

Connor watches Dylan, smiling. “Look, don't blame me for your shitty captain skills, _bro_,” Dylan says, reaching out his foot to poke Mitch in the ribs with his toes, and Mitch gasps and scowls at him, catching Dylan’s ankle and holding it for a second too long before he lets go. “Not my problem.”

“They were cute, though, eh?” Connor says. He's still watching Dylan, and Dylan feels his cheeks go hot and looks down at Mitch. Mitch is watching Dylan too, but there's a look in his eyes that Dylan can't quite define, and Dylan looks down at his beer and picks at the label with his thumbnail.

“They were,” Mitch agrees. There's something in his voice, too, something strained, and Dylan feels weird.

Dylan is allowing himself one beer, because it's Canada Day and it's humid and there are lightning bugs that make the backyard feel like magic, but now he feels like maybe that was a mistake. Connor’s thigh is pressed up against Dylan’s and Mitch has something weird in his eyes and Dylan keeps forgetting how to breathe. “You know what, I think maybe I should head home,” Mitch says after a minute. He sits up and scratches at the back of his head, fixing his hair where it's flattened out from the grass, and then he stands up. “Early day tomorrow, Stromer. Don't be late.”

Dylan looks up at him and nods. 

Mitch presses his lips together and turns to Connor, holds out his fist. “Davo,” he says, and Connor bumps his fist against Mitch’s. “Good to see you, bud. Keep an eye on him, get him to bed at a decent hour, he's a real pain in the ass to deal with when he doesn't get enough sleep.”

Connor smiles. “Don't I know it,” he says, and Dylan makes a face.

“You both suck,” Dylan says, and he stands up and hugs Mitch in a completely uncharacteristic way but he feels bad, kinda, that Mitch feels...whatever. Whatever Mitch feels. 

Mitch hugs him back, wrapping both arms around Dylan's waist and then holding onto his own wrist at the small of Dylan’s back. “Sorry,” Dylan whispers against Mitch’s temple. He’s not quite sure what he's apologizing for but he thinks about the bruise that's fading under the collar of Mitch’s t-shirt and feels guilty. Mitch’s grip around his waist tightens for a split second before Mitch steps back.

“Okay,” Mitch says, nodding. His eyes sparkle in the light from the house, washed out and soft across the yard, and he looks at Dylan for a long time. Dylan chews at his bottom lip and looks back until the corners of Mitch’s mouth turn up in an almost imperceptible smile, and Mitch quirks an eyebrow at him. “Okay,” he says again, and the weird tone in his voice is gone, just like that. “See ya, boys.” He gives them a little salute and walks across the yard towards the house. 

Dylan sits back down once Mitch is almost back to the house, and he doesn't look at Connor but he can feel Connor watching him. Dylan picks up his beer from the grass and studies the way the light reflects off the bottle in the dark. “I'm glad you came today,” he says, finally, and he steels himself and looks up at Connor.

“You're not going to tell me what that was, just now?” Connor says. 

Dylan shakes his head. “It was nothing,” he says. He's not sure if he's lying. “Just...Mitch. You know.”

“Is that it?” Connor asks. It’s gentle, and everything he ever says is gentle but this is somehow even moreso, and Dylan suddenly feels like crying. 

“Are we really gonna talk about Mitch Marner all night,” Dylan says quietly. He’s mostly joking around, but he’s also desperate to talk about _anything_ else. 

There's another long pause and then Connor says, “You’re gonna lose a good thing, if you’re not careful.” His voice is soft and genuine, and it hits Dylan deep in his chest, somewhere close to his heart. 

“What does that mean,” Dylan says, but he has a good feeling he knows what it means. He’s desperate for a change of topic, but he can’t think of anything else to talk about and his brain is just saying, _Mitch Mitch Mitch._

They're quiet for a very long time and then Connor sighs and says, “I don't know, Dyl.” The way he says it is gentle like the breeze and Dylan feels like they're back to talking about Mitch again but he's not sure how they got here. Maybe they never even left.

“Everybody keeps saying that to me,” Dylan says. “Like, do I seem too _fragile_?”

Connor laughs. “Who, _you_? Fragile?” The tag of Connor's shirt is sticking up out of his collar, and it’s driving Dylan crazy. 

Dylan laughs, too. “Shut the fuck up.” 

They're quiet for a long time, and then Connor sighs. “God, I miss this place,” he says quietly. 

Dylan exhales and leans back in the swing and then Connor does, too. “Yeah, me too,” Dylan whispers back. He tries not to think about how he’s here all the time, how this still feels like home even though he’s the only one left who still hasn’t made his own home somewhere new.

Dylan rests his beer on his knee and focuses on the way the cold feels on his skin. Connor tilts his face up at the sky and says, “Everything's changed, you know?”

“Nothing's changed,” Dylan says, because to him it doesn't feel like anything has.

Connor sighs again. It sounds like he doesn't believe Dylan at all, and Dylan can't stand it. “Dylan—”

“Look, you don’t have to say it,” Dylan says quietly. “I know I’m playing with fire here.”

Connor looks over at Dylan. The lights from the house catch his face just right, and Dylan swallows hard and feels his head start to spin. He clears his throat and looks back down at his beer, shaking his head. “I hope you didn’t just come today to check up on me,” Dylan says. He tries to make it sound like a joke, and Connor laughs so Dylan figures it worked. “I hope Ryan didn't make me sound _that_ pathetic?”

“Nah, no,” Connor says. “I mean, I did want to make sure you hadn't replaced me with Marner.”

“Ah, not yet,” he says, but his ears feel hot. “Soon, though, it’s coming.”

“See, _you’ve_ changed,” Connor says. “Maybe nobody else has, but you and Marner, becoming actual friends?” 

_Actual friends_. The way he says it sounds pointed, like Connor’s asking a question even though he’s not _asking_ a question, and Dylan bites hard on the inside of his cheek. “I know, right?”

Connor doesn't say anything, but when Dylan feels like he's got himself under control, he looks at Connor to find Connor watching him, pensive. Connor smiles, but he still doesn’t say anything. 

Dylan looks up at the sky. A shooting star flies by, or maybe it’s a lightning bug, but Dylan closes his eyes and wishes on it anyway. “You ever feel like you’re on the edge of either fucking something up, like, _colossally_, or you might be on the edge of something great?”

Next to him, Connor laughs softly. Dylan opens his eyes. “Yeah,” Connor says. “I’ve felt that before.”

“Me and Marner have been fucking around all summer,” Dylan says quietly. 

“Oh?” Connor doesn’t sound even a little surprised.

“Like, _fucking_ around,” Dylan continues. “Like. Sex and stuff.” He’s not sure why he says it like that, like there’d been any ambiguity in what “fucking around” means. 

“Uh, thanks, but I know what you mean,” Connor says. “Are you having a crisis about it?” 

It’s a fair question, Dylan thinks, but he rolls his eyes anyway. “_No_,” he says. He reaches up and tucks the tag of Connor’s shirt in because he literally can’t stand it anymore. “I dunno. No.”

“Okay,” Connor tilts his head a little. “It seems like you are.”

“Like, I don’t _know_,” Dylan sighs. “It felt weird tonight, I dunno. Maybe it’s not just fucking around.”

“Does it feel like you're fucking around?” Connor asks.

Dylan only hesitates for a second before he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Kinda feels like…” He looks at Connor and winces. “_Feelings_,” he finishes in a whisper.

Connor winces back. “Not _feelings_,” he whispers back.

“I _know_,” Dylan whispers. He smiles a little and shakes his head. “He told me last summer that he thinks I don't love myself enough. I think about it, like, all the time.”

“Holy shit, Mitch Marner actually had something insightful to say?” Connor says.

“I know, right?” Dylan smiles wryly. “Pretty sure that's a sign of the apocalypse.” 

Connor laughs, and then he's quiet for a long time. “I mean,” he finally says, “for what it’s worth, I think you could definitely do _worse_ than Marner.”

Dylan rolls his eyes again, but he laughs a little, too. “I guess,” he says. 

“Uh, no _I guess_ about it,” Connor says. “You could do worse. Pretty sure you _have_ done worse, you have fucking horrible taste.”

“_First_ of all, how dare you,” Dylan says. He’s mildly offended. “My taste is _fine_, thank you very much.” 

“Sure, okay,” Connor says, laughing. 

Dylan flips him off.

“Maybe you should just go for it,” Connor says, more serious. “Shoot your shot. What've you got to lose?”

Dylan walks Connor to where he's parked on the street, and they stand facing each other next to the car. Dylan puts his hands in his back pockets. “Thanks for coming today,” he says. 

“Yeah, of course,” Connor says. “Thanks for the invite.”

“I didn’t invite you,” Dylan points out. “Ryan invited you.”

Connor rolls his eyes. “Well, tell Ryan I said thanks, then.” He pulls Dylan into a hug anyway. 

“I will,” Dylan says, hugging Connor a little tighter than he means to. “Thanks for coming.”

Connor hugs back a little tighter, too. “You said that already,” he says quietly.

“I know, because I really meant it,” Dylan says.

Connor steps back, smiles at him. “I love you, okay? Think about what I said.” He says it like there’s a possibility that Dylan hasn’t been nonstop thinking about it since Connor said it. Connor opens his car door but doesn’t get in.

Dylan laughs, helpless. “Love you, too,” he says. “Drive safe, text me when you get home.”

Connor’s smile is bigger than them both, brighter than the sun; Dylan hardly ever sees this smile anymore and it makes him feel like anything’s possible. “Love you,” Connor says again.

Dylan steps up onto the sidewalk. “You already said that,” he says. 

Connor smiles again, bigger this time. “Yeah, because I really meant it,” he says. “And because you should always hear it.”

A car pulls up behind Connor’s on the street and parks, and Connor squints at it, holds up a hand in greeting, and then looks up at Dylan and raises both eyebrows. “Look who it is.”

Mitch gets out of the car like he regrets coming back at all, and he fiddles with his keys as he walks past Connor’s car. “Sorry, uh,” Mitch says, glancing back and forth between him and Dylan. “I didn't know you were still…”

“I’m just heading out,” Connor says, knocking his fist with Mitch’s. He knocks twice on the roof of the car and gives Dylan a look. “I'll talk to you soon?” He gets in his car before Dylan can say anything, and he waves as he pulls out onto the street. Dylan stands on the edge of the sidewalk and watches Connor’s car until he can’t see the taillights anymore, and then he takes a deep breath and turns to Mitch. 

“Can we talk?” Mitch says before Dylan can say anything. “Um.”

Dylan gestures towards the stairs. “Um, my...parents are home,” he says. “If you wanted privacy.”

Mitch looks past him towards the house, and then back at Dylan. “I should've told you last summer that I thought you were being an idiot about this.” His eyes are big and bright in the moonlight, and Dylan forgets how to breathe for a second. “Because you were being an idiot about this. About you and me. That's what I wanted to...to say.”

“Oh,” Dylan nods slowly. He thinks he might be in shock. “Okay.”

“You wanna just come to my place?” Mitch smiles a little, cautious. “No offense, but my parents don't live there, so.”

Dylan laughs, helpless, and it makes Mitch smile. “Um, yeah,” Dylan says. “Lemme just grab my keys.”

When he gets back to the car, Mitch has the engine running while he taps at his phone. “You could've cancelled your Grindr hookups before you came back over here,” Dylan says as he buckles his seatbelt. “That's the decent thing to do.”

Mitch laughs and drops his phone into the cupholder. “Shut the fuck up,” he says as he pulls out onto the street. “I was just telling them to come over later, that's all.”

They spend the whole drive talking about hockey and training, and Dylan wonders if it's because it's something they can both talk about without having to think too much about it. By the time Mitch pulls into his parking spot, Dylan can't remember a second of the conversation at all. 

Mitch greets the doorman by name and asks how his kids are doing, and Dylan isn't even surprised by it because it's such a Mitch thing to do. But it hits him, how kind and thoughtful and effortless it is, an extra gesture that Dylan might not expect from somebody with as much riding on his shoulders as Mitch has riding on his. 

They take an elevator upstairs, and Mitch leans against the wall in the corner, his hands in his pockets. “That was nice,” Dylan says. “Downstairs, with the doorman.”

“What, talking to him?” Mitch sounds like he hadn't even thought about it until right this second. “He's a nice guy, I like his kids.”

“Yeah, but, like.” Dylan shakes his head as the doors open. “I don't know. You're really nice.”

Mitch laughs as he walks down the hallway towards his door. Dylan falls into step beside him. “Ringing endorsement,” he says as he unlocks his door. “I’m a _nice guy_.”

“It’s not a bad quality to be _nice_,” Dylan says. They walk in, and Mitch drops his keys on a table next to the door. His blinds are wide open, Toronto glittering outside for as far as Dylan can see, and Dylan feels like he’s onstage in front of a million people for a performance he didn’t know he was making. 

Mitch doesn’t turn on the lights, and Dylan looks out at the city for a long time before he turns back to Mitch. “I was being an idiot,” he says, and Mitch smiles at him. “_Don’t_ get used to hearing this, but you were right.”

“So this means I can suck your dick whenever I want, right?” Mitch takes a couple steps closer, but then he stops. 

“Rein in the sweet talk, please,” Dylan says, pressing his hand to his chest. “I can’t take it.”

Mitch watches him. “And you won’t just get up and leave after,” he says, his voice softer and laced with the slightest bit of insecurity. “Right?”

Dylan watches him right back. “Right,” he says, and he means it. 

Mitch chews at his bottom lip and nods, quick, his eyes sparkling. “Okay.” He laughs, but it sounds hollow and terrified. Dylan has an almost uncontrollable urge to walk over and hug him, and then he remembers that _everything’s_ changed, so he walks over and hugs him. Mitch hugs back and lets out a long breath, curling his hands into fists in the fabric of Dylan’s t-shirt. “Sorry,” Mitch says quietly. “I’m just a little overwhelmed.”

“It’s cool, I get it,” Dylan whispers back. “If it makes you less overwhelmed, I promise you can suck my dick whenever you want.” 

Mitch turns his face against Dylan’s neck and laughs. “You’re the most fucking romantic person I’ve ever met in my life,” he says. “Really hope you write that into your wedding vows.”

“Of course, yeah,” Dylan says, laughing. “Consider it done.”

“You mind if we just make out for a while?” Mitch reaches up and puts his hand on top of Dylan’s head. “I promise we can do some dick sucking later.”

“Hey, I’m never gonna turn down a good make out _sesh_,” Dylan says. 

Mitch rolls his eyes harder than anybody Dylan’s ever seen. “Holy shit, I’ve made a _huge_ mistake.”

They end up making out on the couch for a while, but Dylan keeps catching glimpses of the skyline out of the corner of his eye and freaking himself out that everybody can see what they’re doing. “Nobody can see us,” Mitch keeps saying, but eventually they move into Mitch’s bedroom where the windows, thankfully, are covered with blinds. 

Dylan’s lost track of what time it is when Mitch rolls onto his back and yawns, arching his back until it cracks. Dylan rolls onto his back, too, and he laces his hands together on his stomach. “I know this is like, tons of fun,” Mitch says quietly, nosing behind Dylan’s ear, “but we still have to train in the morning.”

Dylan sighs. “I know.” 

Mitch turns onto his side and kisses Dylan’s shoulder. “Are you gonna stay over?” 

His voice sounds small, unsure, and Dylan looks over at him and nods. “Yeah,” he says. It feels new, fresh, wild, and he feels like it makes his heart beat a little faster. “If that’s cool?”

Even in the dark, he can see Mitch’s face light up. “Yeah,” Mitch says. “That’s cool.”


End file.
